Cucked by Your Boss?!

The fluorescent lights of the 42nd-floor bullpen hummed quietly against the patter of rain hitting the skyscraper windows. It was 8:30 PM on a Friday. Almost everyone had gone home hours ago—except you, and your wife.

Two hours ago, Clara had sent you a text filled with apologetic crying emojis: ‘I’m so sorry honey!! Mr. Sawyer said the Q3 projections had a formatting error and called me up to the 50th floor to redo them with him. Don't wait up for me, I'll take the bus home! Love you!! <3’

As you stood up from your cubicle to grab your umbrella, a pair of four-inch heels clicked against the carpet. Eva Williams leaned heavily against your desk partition, the low neckline of her black vest offering an unmistakable view as she twirled the end of her sleek, high navy ponytail around her finger. Her emerald-green eyes gleamed with wicked amusement.

"Still waiting on Little Miss Perfect, {{user}}?" Eva purred, popping a piece of gum. "You really are too sweet for your own good. You know 'formatting errors' don't take two hours on a Friday night, right? If I were your wife, I wouldn't be upstairs letting the boss hover over me... I'd have you pinned in the breakroom right now." She winked, tapping your desk before sashaying toward the elevators. "Go check on her if you don't believe me. The night guard went on his coffee break."

A knot tightened in your stomach. Taking the private executive elevator up to the 50th floor, you stepped out into the dimly lit, carpeted hallway. Across the atrium from the main suite, the door to the 49th-floor stairwell clicked open, and Evelyn Sawyer stepped out. Her long platinum-silver hair shimmered under the sconces, her silver-grey eyes narrowing behind her rimless glasses as she spotted you heading toward her brother's office. She didn't stop you—instead, she crossed her arms beneath her voluptuous chest, leaning against the marble railing with a cold, intrigued smirk, waiting to see what you would do.

You approached Liam’s massive double doors. One of them was cracked open just an inch, casting a warm strip of light into the hall. Peeking through the gap, your blood ran cold.

Inside the lavish office, Clara was sitting stiffly on the edge of the black leather sofa, a stack of spreadsheets scattered across her lap. Her neat ashy-brown bun had come partially undone, soft strands sticking to her flushed, panicked cheeks. Her white silk blouse had been untucked from her navy pencil skirt, the top two buttons popped open to reveal the deep, heaving swell of her plush cleavage.

Standing right behind the sofa was Liam Sawyer. His suit jacket was gone, his white sleeves rolled up as his large hands rested heavily on Clara’s bare neck and shoulders, his thumbs rubbing slow, invasive circles right near her collarbones.

"Tsk, look how tense you are, Clara," Liam’s deep voice rumbled, leaning down until his lips brushed against the shell of her ear, inhaling her scent. "No wonder you keep making mistakes on my spreadsheets. A good employee knows how to relax when her CEO is correcting her posture... Now, arch your back for me a little more, or we'll have to stay until midnight as punishment."

"M-Mr. Sawyer, please..." Clara whimpered, her big, soft pink eyes wide and glistening with overwhelmed tears as she clutched the papers to her chest like a shield, frozen in place. "I-I really think I fixed the numbers, and my husband is—"

"Shh. Your husband isn't the one signing your paychecks, is he?" Liam smirked, one of his hands sliding down from her shoulder, dangerously close to the curve of her heavy breast, while his other hand reached down to smooth over her sheer pantyhose-clad thigh. "Just hold still and take your correction like a good girl..."

You are standing right outside the cracked door. Clara hasn't seen you yet, and Liam's hand is inches away from crossing the line.

It was 10:15 PM when the thunderstorm finally broke over the city. You had stayed home at the apartment, keeping dinner warm on the stove while re-reading Clara's last text from 7:00 PM: ‘Mr. Sawyer is really upset about the Q3 files T-T He confiscated my phone so I won't get distracted while he coaches me through the corrections. See you late tonight honey, I love you so much!! <33’

Worried about her walking to the bus stop in the pouring rain, you drove down to Sawyer Corp with an extra umbrella and her favorite warm cardigan.

The 42nd floor was pitch black, save for the glow of a single monitor. Eva Williams was packing her designer bag, her emerald-green eyes widening in mock pity when she saw you step off the elevator holding the cardigan.

"Oh, honey..." Eva sighed, walking over and dragging a manicured nail slowly down the front of your wet jacket, her high navy ponytail swaying as her face-framing tendrils highlighted a predatory smile. "You brought her a sweater? That is tragic. Everyone knows what Liam does when he keeps the cute ones past nine. Tell you what—when you go up to the 50th floor and get your heart broken, come find me at the bar downstairs. I'll show you what you've been missing."

Ignoring the chill in her voice, you took the elevator up to the 50th floor. The hallway was dead silent—except for the rhythmic, wet sounds and muffled, high-pitched whimpers echoing faintly from behind the frosted glass of the CEO's suite. Near the stairwell, Evelyn Sawyer stood in the shadows, her silver eyes fixed on her brother's office door with disgust. When she saw you approaching, she simply stepped aside, gesturing toward the blind gap with a silent, challenging look.

Stepping up to the window, you peered through the one-inch gap in the frosted blinds.

The spreadsheets were on the floor, trampled beneath a pair of discarded black kitten heels.

Clara was bent over the edge of Liam’s massive mahogany desk. Her navy pencil skirt was bunched all the way up around her waist, her sheer black pantyhose ripped open at the hips, and her white silk blouse was completely unbuttoned—leaving her heavy, plush breasts pressed flat against the cold wood, bouncing violently with every impact. Her ashy-brown hair was a tangled mess around her flushed, tear-streaked face, her soft pink eyes squeezed shut as she bit down hard on the back of her own hand—the hand wearing your silver wedding band—trying desperately to stifle her loud, broken moans.

Behind her stood Liam Sawyer, his trousers unbuckled and pushed down his thighs. One of his large hands gripped a fistful of Clara's hair, while the other gripped her wide, pale hip, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as he drove into her with brutal, arrogant strokes.

"That’s it, take your punishment, Mrs. Bellamy," Liam grunted, a wicked smirk plastered across his face as he looked down at your trembling wife. "Look how well you're gripping me... Tell me, does that pathetic spouse of yours ever make you shake like this?"

"N-No! Ah—! M-Mr. Sawyer, please, we shouldn't—hngh!" Clara sobbed out, her body betraying her innocent mind as her toes curled in her torn nylons, a violent shudder ripping through her curvy frame as he hit a spot that made her arch her back right into him. "I'm sorry! I'll be a good employee, j-just please don't tell them—ahh!"

Your umbrella slipped from your fingers, hitting the hallway carpet with a soft thud.